


all good things must end someday

by deadlybride



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Hallucinating Sam Winchester, Season/Series 07, Summer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-22
Updated: 2018-02-22
Packaged: 2019-03-22 14:34:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13766193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadlybride/pseuds/deadlybride
Summary: On a humid day in Arizona, Dean tries to fix the car and Sam tries to hold on.Written for SPN Short Stories: Seasons.





	all good things must end someday

The service station doesn’t have much worth buying in their convenience store. The wrinkled little plum of a cashier smiles distractedly at Sam when he puts the last remaining six-pack of El Sol and a few bottles of water on the grimy counter, but she’s more focused on whatever’s on the tiny TV balanced next to the register.

“Hot one out there,” she says, raspy-voiced, eyes still on her show. Sam nods, politely, but she doesn’t see it. There’s a faint echo of mocking laughter, someone saying, _hotter than hell, right, Sam?_ somewhere on the edge of hearing, but he ignores that. Has to.

It is hot, and humid, too. He steps outside, the old-fashioned bell jangling tiredly behind him, and it’s like stepping into a sauna. Central Arizona in the middle of August is nowhere to be, the monsoon storms making the days muggy and terrible, but they’re on a long haul this time, from the shapeshifter in Olympia all the way down to some freaky mysterious murders in Las Cruces, and then something pinged in the engine just outside of Cactus Flat, so here they are. He wanders over to where the car’s parked halfway out of the garage, hugging the cold bottles up against his chest, and it’d be silent but for the sweet, tinny hippie music being piped out of the little speaker by the door. The handyman on duty is seated well back, in the empty bay in the shade with a rickety fan blowing directly at his face, and Sam thinks he might be napping. He probably has the right idea. The hood’s up on the Impala, their travel toolbox spread open on the ground, but Dean’s nowhere to be seen. He probably hasn’t disappeared somehow, but—

“Dean?” Sam says.

“Under here,” he hears, and when he goes around the other side of the car—yeah, there’s a familiar set of grease-smeared jeans, stretched out from under the car while Dean works on… something.

“Is it fixed?” Sam says, and there’s a snort.

“You actually want play-by-play of what I’m doing?” Dean says, voice muffled. There’s a sort of clicky wrench sound, and he lets out a low _hah_.

“Not really,” Sam says, and then nudges Dean’s boot with his own. “Come out, drink something.”

“Whatever, Mom,” Dean says, but he heels himself out from under the car anyway, and squints in the sudden light. He’s drenched in sweat, even though he stripped down to his t-shirt. Sam holds out a water bottle, and Dean sits up on the mechanic creeper and takes it with a grimace. “Hope you got something a little stronger than this.”

“Drink that first,” Sam says. Dean rolls his eyes, but he cracks it and gulps some of it down, anyway. It’s sort of a victory—liquid’s going down that’s not either coffee or booze. Sam sits on an overturned tractor tire a few feet away, and has to hiss when the heat of it sinks through his jeans. Might be humid, but it’s also like a hundred degrees, and he can see the afternoon storm coming over the mountains, clouds thick and reaching into the stratosphere. His hair’s already soaked. He closes his eyes against the thick afternoon light and rolls his own water bottle against his forehead for a second, the condensation on it already heavy and dripping down his wrist. The cold tickles oddly against the tender new skin on his palm, but he doesn’t mind it, really. It’s an unpleasant reminder, but he needs one.

After getting away from the hospital, and hiding in the cabin—after Bozeman and Amy, after meeting Bobby in Spokane, they caught wind of the hunt over in Olympia, and it was easy. A shapeshifter robbing and killing spouses wasn’t doing much to hide her—his?—movements, and really, it hardly counted as a job at all. The whispers on the edge of Sam’s hearing were louder than they should’ve been, but he just dug his thumb into the scar and kept moving, and other than a slash across Dean’s shoulder that needed a few stitches they came out of it unscathed. Another victory. Proof that, despite everything, he can still do the work.

Dean gets up and tosses his empty bottle at Sam’s feet. “Can I get a real drink now, barkeep?” he says, and Sam rolls his eyes and hands him an El Sol. He cracks it and tips it to Sam in a toast, takes a swallow, and when he heads back to the open hood Sam sees that there’s little blood spots on his shirt, pinking the white cotton and smeared from the sweat. Probably pulled his stitches from moving too much under the car, the idiot. Sam will have to check them once they get to a motel, and Dean will bitch but he’ll let Sam do it, and that’s all that matters. Sam watches him leaning over the engine, his face set with concentration. He looks tired. The bottle of whiskey in his duffle is almost empty, when Sam knows he bought it fresh in Spokane, and he wants to say something, wants to caution, wants to say, _please—_ but he’s got no right to it. The shadows under Dean’s eyes aren’t anyone’s fault but his.

Sam grabs a beer for himself, cracks it and then just holds it cold between his palms, closing his eyes. Dean’s not making much noise, just his boots scuffing in the dirt, and there’s the faint music coming from the store, but that’s not much of a distraction. Somewhere he can’t see, there’s an archangel with nothing better to do, and there’s a voice that isn’t there saying, _you can end it anytime, you know—he’d be better off without you_. It’s not real. He knows it. Sometimes it’s really loud, though. Hard to hear anything else.

“You good?” Dean says.

When Sam opens his eyes Dean’s sitting on the creeper again, his elbows resting on his knees, watching him. The tone was casual but the expression isn’t, and the caution would almost be aggravating—has been aggravating, other times. In another lifetime. Sam knows a little better, now.

“Yeah, I’m good,” Sam says. He doesn’t try to smile, but Dean isn’t really looking for that. He just needs Sam to be okay. Dean’s bottle is already empty, sitting in the dirt by the front tire, but he hasn’t asked for another yet. Sam nudges Dean’s foot, tips his own beer at the Impala. “You think we can get going again before the storm hits? I don’t want to be stuck here all night.”

“Bitch, bitch,” Dean says, rolling his eyes, but there’s the smallest curve to his mouth when he lays down and rolls back under the car.

Sam leans against the wall of the garage, takes the sear as the heat sinks through his shirt without a flinch. It hurts a little, but that’s okay. He takes a swallow of his beer, lets the bitter cold of it fill his mouth. The clouds are getting dark, massing up high on the horizon, but it’s not raining. Not yet.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to everyone who did so much great work for this collection!


End file.
